The Watchers
by Even.The.Stars.Refuse.To.Shine
Summary: Faced with the prospect of losing his brother forever, Sam Winchester makes a decision that will alter his future permanently. Little does he know that his choice will unleash powerful, ancient beings known only as the Watchers – and with only a graceless angel to help him, will he be able to save the world ... and his brother? Set post-season 9.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1: Missing

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Dying did not feel like this.

He knew that much, because this was not the first time he had died; yet the darkness that took him then did not take hold of him now, did not swallow him up in its suffocating embrace, peeling his soul from his muscles and bones layer by layer until he, Dean Winchester, was nothing but an empty vessel. Instead of darkness, he saw red.

Hellfire red.

He felt it, too, burning away at the body he knew he shouldn't have. Blazing through his veins and his – beating? – heart. Yes, he was right. He was not dying. Death was cold, numbing; this was too precise, too measured. Too real.

Then, he opened his eyes.

* * *

Sam had never liked alcohol; he'd seen what it could do to a man, what it had done to his father. As the years passed by, however, he grew to understand John in ways that terrified him as often as they comforted him. Just as the journal was a part of John, and the Impala a part of him, so was Sam.

He took another swig of whisky, relishing the burn in his throat.

Losing himself in the bottom of a bottle had become one of his favourite pastimes. With that and the blood binging, Sam had come to realise he was as much of an addict as his father was; but caring about his iniquities was beyond him.

Watching those you love get killed kind of does that to a person.

Dazedly, he traced the table with his hands, fingers sweeping over the continents. The table would light up in the event of a crisis, pinpointing wherever in the world something terrible was happening. He found his location on the map, brushing it with his fingertips, and wondered why it wasn't lit. Of course there was a crisis. His brother was dead.

Sam rose, steadying himself as his head spun. He didn't know whether it had been minutes or hours since he'd fled his brother's bedroom, but either way, it had been too long. If he didn't deal with the body now he didn't think he ever would.

Would it be a burial again? When the hellhounds had finished with him, there hadn't been much of Dean to bury – it had been easier to think that it wasn't bits of his brother he was burying, that way. It was different this time, and Bobby wasn't around to share the weight of his grief.

No – it would be fire, Sam decided. There was a bizarre finality about the flames, something absolute. Dean would have preferred it that way.

He climbed the stairs one by one, as if each step was a mountain, until he reached the landing. Slowly, his head cleared. There was something noticeably _wrong_ in the air, something that made the hairs on the back of Sam's neck rise. He drew the demon-blade from inside his coat, out of habit. Instinct was something he'd learned not to ignore.

For someone so large, he moved with surprising noiselessness along the passage until he reached the door to his brother's room. Sam paused, sweat tickling his palms. Nothing good lay beyond that door.

With a quick jerk of his wrist, he twisted the doorknob and pushed into the room. His eyes fell upon his brother's body for only an instant before they flickered to the armchair against the adjacent wall.

"Hello, Moose," greeted Crowley, signature smirk in place. His arms were draped casually over the armrests, and there was a feverish light in his eyes that Sam instantly recognised as some sick sort of excitement.

"Get out," said Sam, his voice low and threatening. "I don't know what you're doing here, but if you don't –"

"Actually, I was just on my way." Crowley rose, brushed himself off, and looked at Sam. "I got what I wanted."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

The corner of Crowley's mouth twisted, sinister and menacing. "You'll find out soon enough."

And with a click of his fingers, he vanished – just as Ruby's knife sank into the wall behind him. Sam lowered his hand, annoyed that he hadn't thrown the blade sooner. He hated that demon.

Wrinkling his nose at the pungent, all-too-familiar reek of sulphur, Sam glanced at the bed where his brother lay.

Except, Dean wasn't there.

A cold wall slammed into Sam's chest. He hardly dared to breathe; iron fists clenched his lungs. Then Sam whirled into action, seizing the knife from the wall with the deft sort of efficiency that belonged to a hunter.

Before he knew it he was in the library, fingers sweeping through yellowing pages as shelves of books towered over him, silent and watchful, like old wooden sentinels. He barely read the words, and tossed the books to the side when he declared them useless; it was when this pile became a mountain that Sam finally found what he needed.

The tattered leather cover was hanging off, and the script was barely legible, but the book had come in handy before.

Sam's hands tightened on the manuscript. "Crowley," he said, and though it was barely a whisper, the word promised vengeance.

He tucked the book under his arm and extracted his phone, punching in the right digits. Garth answered on the second ring.

"I need some ingredients for a summoning ritual," he ordered. There was a mumbled reply down the phone. "Yeah, I know, I'll send you a list. Uh huh. Got it."

Sam hung up before his friend could reply, and tucked a loose strand of hair behind his ear. He sat down and poured himself a glass of scotch.

It was going to be a long night.

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******Thanks for reading! **Bit of a short chapter, but the rest should be longer . . . review if you liked it :)


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter two: The Beginning of the End

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**Thanks to DearHart and Souless666 for reviewing, it is very much appreciated - here is chapter two! :)**

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The house looked the same as it had the last time he had visited. Blue paint crumbled from the walls, vines crept around the porch like winding serpents, and the curtains were drawn in all the windows but one; if it wasn't for the light spilling out onto the terrace, bathing the ground in a soft, golden glow, anyone would've thought that the place was abandoned.

Sweat trickled icily beneath Castiel's trench coat. He could feel the pounding of his heart in his chest as he approached the window, placing his palms against the cool glass. His breath clouded the windowpane, and he wiped it away with his sleeve, raking his eyes over the small living room. Flames licked inside the fireplace, casting shadows over Mary Winchester's face; they danced, igniting her champagne-coloured curls.

It was the frailty of humanity that had always appealed to Cas. Human lives were so delicate; yet the humans he'd known had lived more in decades than he had in millennia.

And then there was Dean Winchester.

In barely thirty years, this man had changed the world. Saved lives, taken them, and altered them permanently. For Cas, nothing would be the same again. He had found his freedom in the back of an Impala, in the bottom of a liquor bottle and in the hard, sage eyes of a friend.

Mary shared those eyes. They were gentler somehow, lacking the cynicism that Dean's often possessed, but they were his nonetheless.

Cas sighed. It was a deep sigh, one that permeated every inch of his body. He felt a frigid, heavy weight sap his strength, a constant reminder of the grace that splintered and withered away inside him. It was the price he had to pay to save his friends, and as much as he wanted to regret it, he couldn't. He'd pay it a hundred times, no, a thousand, if he could save the only man that mattered.

This corner of heaven was one he had visited precisely once, years ago when he hoped that understanding Dean's past would help him to understand the man himself. Needless to say, it hadn't. Cas turned away from the window, annoyed that this visit, too, had yielded fruitless results.

Dean was not here.

Cas had combed every inch of heaven for Dean, believing that no one was truly out of reach. Not for those with wings. But in spite of this, Dean remained untouchable. Something was wrong, very wrong, but Cas could not pinpoint what it was. There was only one thing of which he was certain; his friend was not behind the pearly gates.

He slipped into his favourite heaven, leaving behind the lonely house and the autumn leaves. Sunlight soaked the grass, and in the distance, a brightly-dressed man flew a kite. Cas watched the man, worry gnawing at his stomach. If Dean was not in heaven, then where was he? He was no closer to solving the puzzle, when he heard the familiar static that heralded prayer.

"Cas, if you're listening, I need you …"

* * *

Chamomile. Juniper. The crushed skull of a dormouse. The ingredients for the summoning ritual were all here, with one exception … and Sam wasn't sure whether Cas had heard his prayer. There was no doubt that news of Dean's death had reached the angel, and despite Cas' obvious preference of the elder Winchester brother, Sam had been sure that he would answer – now more than ever.

He sat cross-legged on the floor of the dungeon, the chains and spikes and iron handcuffs hanging empty on the walls. The room was as it had always been, damp and cold, lit only by the single, fluorescent strip light mounted on the ceiling. Candles were burning in the corners of the room, not for show, but to aid the ritual. Sam traced the devil's trap with his fingers, feeling the groove where it had been carved into the concrete at his feet.

One of the candles flickered.

"Sam." The gravelly voice resonated from the walls, and Sam turned, staring, as Castiel moved towards him. His coat was spotless, his shoes shining, and his appearance bore no sign of any grief. Then Sam saw his eyes, raw, burning steel, and he knew.

"You came," he said.

"I brought what you asked for," Cas offered, handing Sam a small jar. Sam removed the cap, and shook the contents into the bowl in his lap. The angel didn't question the candles, or the vials and herbs strewn across the floor, or the heavy, dilapidated Latin manuscript at Sam's feet.

The silence was heavy as Sam leafed through his book, searching for the right incantation. And then –

"Dean wasn't in heaven."

"What?" Sam watched his friend pace the room, not comprehending the meaning of his words.

"I looked for him in heaven. He wasn't there. I don't know where else to look." The angel ground to a stop. "Have you buried him?"

"That's why I called you. Crowley – he took the body." The name came out as a snarl, and Sam felt his fingers tighten on the book. Why hadn't Dean's soul gone to heaven? When they had died before, both of them had ended up in the clouds – had the First Blade corrupted him so much that it stayed with him, even in death? Cas gazed at him impassively for a moment, before swooping in, his face inches from Sam's.

"He did what?"

Sam felt himself instinctively lean back, distancing himself from the angel's fury. In a low voice, he explained what had happened two nights ago, when Dean vanished from his blood-stained mattress. He neglected to tell Cas exactly how his brother had died – it seemed less real if he didn't talk about it. He could almost cope, that way.

"This is for Crowley," Cas noted, appraising the devil's trap.

Sam nodded. The room was gloomy now, lit only by the candles, and the spell was almost ready. He pressed Ruby's knife to his palm, drawing it across the skin, and held it over the bowl. A trickle of blood ran from the wound.

"_Invoco te, daemon . . ." _As Sam chanted, the candles burned higher and brighter, trembling in an imagined breeze, until suddenly and without warning they extinguished, leaving the room in darkness. The fluorescent light above Sam's head flickered for a moment, and then blazed to life once more.

The King of Hell smirked, and raised his hand by way of greeting. "Hello, boys." He glanced around the room, taking in the chains and various torture instruments on the walls. "Thought you might summon me here. Can't say I've missed the place."

"Then let's get this over with. Talk."

Crowley smiled, and folded his arms. Silence.

"Fine. If that's how you're gonna be. Cas?" Cas selected a thin, needle-like blade from the wall and handed it to Sam. Standing in front of the demon, Sam took out a flask from his back pocket and proceeded to douse the razor in holy water.

"Torture? Really? I'm disappointed, Moose."

"Don't be," said Sam. "This doesn't have to be for you."

"Then who –"

Sam smiled, and shook his head. "Gavin? You can come in now."

The doors scraped open, and a scrawny, twenty-something man entered the room. He was tall, bordering on lanky, with a mop of brown hair atop his head that trembled with the rest of his body. "Dad?" His voice was high, reedy, and thick with a Scottish accent.

"It's alright, Gavin," assured Sam. "Your father's going to tell us everything we need to know, and then you can go."

Crowley's mouth twisted. "I have to applaud your ingenuity, but really, you've pulled this one before. It didn't work."

Cas interrupted. "As I recall, it worked flawlessly when Abaddon tried it."

The air was thick with tension. Crowley unfolded his arms, walking to the very edge of the devil's trap. His mouth smiled, but his eyes did not. "What do you want to know?"

Sam's eyes bored into him, full of fire. "You know what. What did you do to my brother?"

"It's not Dean you should be worrying about, Moose. He's better than he's ever been."

"He's dead." Cas stepped forward, right up to the circle. His eyes were ice, and the demon felt a shiver go through him as he stared into their pale blue depths. "I don't understand your definition of 'better.'"

"On the contrary," argued Crowley. Sam noticed that the demon's eyes had lit up, flaunting that strange fanatical glow he'd seen before Dean had disappeared.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Sam growled, and sprang at him. In two short strides, he was face-to-face with the demon, pushing Cas out of the way. He glared, wordless, and gripped Crowley's throat, his hands like iron, his eyes like pyres, and squeezed until his fingers threatened to snap.

Crowley didn't resist, but choked out a laugh. "Isn't it obvious?" He wheezed, Sam's hand tightening on his throat. "Your brother is a demon."

It took Sam a few moments to comprehend the meaning of his words. When he did, he unclenched his fist and Crowley dropped to the floor, laughing and wheezing.

"You're lying." Sam watched the demon squirm on the concrete, and Crowley stared back, shaking with mirth. Cas was silent, staring into space.

"Tell me the truth!" Sam seized the flask from his pocket and splashed the contents onto Crowley, whose skin sizzled; the demon continued to laugh mercilessly. It was only when Sam seized hold of Gavin, and held Ruby's knife to his throat, that Crowley's laughter died.

"I'm telling the truth, you moron," he drawled, heaving himself off the floor. "Why else would I take Dean?"

It was at hearing Dean's name that Cas stirred. In that moment, something died inside of him, and he could only stare blankly at the demon as if he had not heard him. "What have you done?" It was barely a whisper, but Crowley heard it all the same.

"I didn't do anything," said Crowley. "I didn't need to."

Sam felt sick. "You believe him? You believe a word that comes out his lying mouth?"

Cas didn't answer. The truth seemed to suffocate him, wrapping around him until his head span. It was the mark. He knew, as soon as he'd seen it on Dean's arm, that it would ruin everything. Pain sucked the colour from his face, and he felt his body hit the ground.

"Cas!" Sam released Gavin and hurried to his friend's side, shaking him urgently, throwing accusing glances across the room. "What have you done to him?"

"It looks like your angel's past his expiration date," Crowley remarked. He watched indifferently as a dark glob of blood oozed from Cas' nose, and then he caught Sam's eye. For an instant he looked almost sorry. "I didn't know what was going to happen to Dean when he took the mark. Well, I suspected, of course, but I never knew that this would happen."

"Save it, Crowley," snapped Sam. He hoisted Cas onto his shoulder and half-dragged, half-carried him from the room. Gavin scuttled away as they passed, sinking into the corner of the cell furthest from the devil's trap.

Cas' head hung limply in Sam's arms, and as the trickle of blood turned into a stream, Sam realised the extent of the angel's sickness. His grace was failing – rapidly. If he had spared a second to think of someone other than Dean, he might've noticed sooner. The thought hadn't even crossed his grief-stricken mind.

Once downstairs, he set Cas on the couch and mopped up the blood, of which there was a worryingly large amount. Cas breath softened, became more regular, and Sam's worry dissipated for the moment.

He didn't doubt that Crowley was lying, but he couldn't shake the feeling that maybe, just maybe, he wasn't. Was it even possible? Could the mark have twisted Dean's soul beyond repair, when half a century in hell hadn't been able to accomplish the same thing? Sam rose from Cas' side and mounted the stairs to the dungeon, clutching the heavy wooden bannister for support. His thoughts weighed on him, and some small, shameful part of himself hoped that Crowley was telling the truth. He didn't want to lose his big brother.

With a trembling, heaving sigh, Sam pushed open the doors to the dungeon. He froze, and in the silence, he heard his pulse quicken. Inside the room the air had turned frosty, as if winter had come early, and Sam felt the hairs on his neck raise, his muscles stiffen, as he appraised the scene. A deep crack severed the devil's trap, running from one end of the room right to the other.

Crowley and his son were gone.

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**Hope you guys liked it! Thank you for reading :)**


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